Transitions

For me, by far, my most anxiety filled and stressful moments have been created by any change in the Kid's routine. For example, Kindergarten was, quite simply, a heart attack. My little tiny 5-year-old was all of the sudden spending hours a day with strangers and, to add fuel to the mommy trauma fire, riding the bus. A hall of fame life shortening moment came when I got a frantic call from our full-time babysitter (oh let's just call a spade a spade ... our nanny). "The Kid didn't get off the bus." My heart literally stopped in my chest. I raced out of the front door of my company, to my car, gunned the engine, and drove eighty plus miles per hour to the elementary school, arriving in nine minutes with tears streaming down my face, all the while frantically trying to dial the school to put me in touch with my Kid's teacher.

I grabbed a parking spot, madly galloped into the school and careened into his room. There he was sitting with his teacher. I gasped at her, "why wasn't he on the bus?" She said "I am so sorry, he told us he didn't take the bus today. I don't know why I listened to him. But he was very insistent." I glared at the Kid, I'd deal with him later. Then I glared at her. She didn't have kids. She had no way of knowing she had just shortened my life by a couple of days.

Another horrifying memory was created by soccer camp. One summer the Kid had a week of morning soccer camp. My husband would drop him off and I was supposed to pick him up at noon to take him home to the nanny. The very first day, Monday, I looked down at my watch at work. It was noon, wasn't I supposed to be somewhere? Then it hit me--soccer camp. I high tailed it out the front door, jumped in the car, sped all the way there. Visions of the Kid being taken away by some stranger danced in my head. I dared not call my husband who would have probably seriously considered, for 30 seconds, reporting the incident to social services. I parked the car as quickly as possible and ran a 3 minute mile to the field. There I found my son, sitting on a soccer ball, sobbing in the middle of the chaos of coaches, kids and parents. I was 13 minutes late. Wailing, he said "I thought you weren't ever going to come." Hugging him to my chest I said I was sorry over and over again. To this day, 3 years later, I still randomly get "Remember the time you left me at soccer camp?"

The start of second grade brought another monumental change. I let the nanny go after six and a half years of dedicated service. She took it way worse than the Kid, as she had been with us since he was 6 months old. She was now just part-time, working mornings at a neighbor's and afternoons with us. We really didn't need her that much, and we felt that the Kid was ready for a little Darwin (survival of the fittest). So, at the start of second grade, we put him in an after school program for a couple of hours. He seemed to really like it. They had snack, did homework and played on the field with friends from his class. My husband picked him up at 4. This transition was surprisingly smooth and hassle free.

Then time to make summer arrangements. For the last 3 summers, the Kid has had a combination of his nanny and the local yacht club summer program. Let's just say he was living really large and experiencing a totally different lifestyle then me or my husband have EVER experienced. The club informed us it was time for him to graduate from the kiddy boating program to actually sailing his own sabot. Since, we had no plans to become boaters ourselves it was an easy decision. No more yacht club. The elementary school care was running a summer program, so we thought, great! Between my husband's vacation, my vacation, my mother, my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law, the Kid would only have to spend 5 weeks in the school summer program. No big deal.

The first week I felt awful about the whole thing. It seemed like there were only about 25 kids. I wondered where the other after school kids were (typically there are 40-50). It seemed lonely at the school with just this little outpost of humanity. The Kid seemed shy about the whole thing. His regular buddies weren't there. And, although the camp had a daily schedule of all kinds of activities, it appeared that only one from the list was ever really executed.

Everyday with a worried look on my face I asked the Kid "how is school?" And everyday he said "good." On Friday at the end of the first week, I picked him up and he had six inch wide asphalt marks down the front of his t-shirt and skinned and bruised arms and knees. He had apparently fallen hard playing on his Razor. "Who helped you?" "No one. And the big boys yelled good one Kid," he said to me using the typical playground singsong mocking tone.

Later that evening when my husband came home, I wrung my hands repeating the story with tears in my eyes. My husband, by the way, is the youngest of 5 children, the 4 older ones being some of the toughest women I have ever known. I finished my sad story, questioning our childcare option, doubting my life choices, thinking we should move to Riverside and I could start selling on eBay so our poor son wouldn't have to spend the summer in the after school program. I wound down my diatribe and looked mournfully at my husband for his reaction. He turned from me, went back to his computer and tossed over his shoulder "what a whiner."

The Kid is now in week 4 of his 5 weeks, he seems to have friends and graciously tolerates the seven hours of non-stop summer partying. I still check though. Just tonight I asked him how it was going with the big kids. He said "I don't talk to them very much and they don't talk to me very much." Another transitioned survived.

Not at dinner please!

Religion isn’t an acceptable topic of conversation at most dinner parties. It makes people uncomfortable. Especially white, upper middle class, graduate school educated people. And, most certainly my recent conversion to Catholicism was not only unexpected but, having picked an exceedingly unpopular religion by the standards of the above said group, it was somewhat outrageous. A couple of friends were aware of my enrollment in Catholic education studies, but everyone else wasn’t.

After a few bottles of wine, over dessert, someone in the know would blurt out (probably for shear sport), “So how’s your Catholic thing going?” I would mumble “Fine,” then quickly complement the hostess on dessert. And an ordinarily polite group of friends who wouldn’t dream of commenting on your weight, your boob implants or your obviously botoxed forehead immediately would go for the gut.

“What about those pedophile priests?” I don’t respond right away, drawing on my inner strength and steeling myself. “It has never been my practice to leave my son alone with any adult male non-relative, priest or otherwise.”

“Priests should be allowed to marry. That would fix everything.” I pick up my glass of wine, swirl its contents, lift it to the light then take a slow sip. “I think they would certainally have more priests if marriage was allowed.”

“How could you join a religion that treats women so badly?” I look down at my plate and mince what’s left of my pie into tiny crumbs before taking my last bite. “Catholics don’t treat women any worse than they are treated at General Motors.”

“What about the birth control. That must be a problem.” I slowly fold my napkin into a 1” square. “I’m 44. It’s really not a problem.”

“How can you belong to a group that has so many bad rules?” I unfold my napkin. “I have worked for large corporations my whole life. I am used to old institutions with bad rules that never change.”

“Why Catholic?” I fidget in my chair a little and gaze at a painting. “Because I was baptized Catholic, my father’s family is Catholic and my husband’s family is Catholic.”

“Why now after all these years?” Finally an easy question. “Because I have been worried about raising my kid in this day and age in the land of the rich and privileged without a moral compass.”

“Do you like it?” And the easiest question of all. “I like nearly everything about it. The history, the traditions, the ceremonies, the priests, the congregation, the buildings, and the services.”

“Just last month we went to a church and the speaker gave a great motivational speech. None of that Jesus God talk.” I take a long swig of water, smile and excuse myself to use the restroom. Of course, I had neglected to mention the part I like best. But no one really wants to hear that stuff.

Park Closed for the 4th

For many years on the 4th of July, around 8:30 PM our family has walked to the empty dirt lot at the corner of Jamboree and PCH to watch the spectacular fire works show over the Back Bay. We were always in good company as countless other people strolled down to this ideal vantage point with lawn chairs and blankets, plopped down on the sidewalk up and down PCH and on the immediate hillside in the dirt and the weeds for the thirty minute display. From this vantage point, you can not only see the main Back Bay display, but along the rim of the bay you can see spectacular displays from all over the County including Huntington Harbor, Disneyland, Anaheim Stadium and Big Canyon.

Over the past year, we curiously watched as this lot was landscaped with a cement walkway and hardy California natives and named an official public “park.” We were disappointed as this cliff is an ideal spot to watch the sunset and we had been hoping for a few trees, a couple of benches and grass. But nevertheless it was nice that the land became a city park. This year when we arrived at the unofficial but well known fire works gazing corner, our family and others were greeted by chain link fence and “park closed” signs. Apparently the City of Newport Beach must have been concerned that the couple of hundred fireworks watchers would stray from the cement path and trample the hardy plant material. The actual only practical use for this public park (viewing of annual fireworks) was effectively prevented.

Only in the O.C. would a public park be closed for the 4th of July.